


Unthinkable

by becausetheyrehappythisway



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, F/M, Football, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becausetheyrehappythisway/pseuds/becausetheyrehappythisway
Summary: Katniss Everdeen, a trained dancer, has to teach Peeta Mellark, a football player, how to do ballet. Peeta had torn his ACL and needs to gain his strength back. They are everything less than friends. They loathe each other more than her choreographer and his coach, that's saying a lot.





	Unthinkable

**The** lights are on in the kitchen when I walk into the house. They almost never are.

“Hello?” I ask, looking in every direction. “Prim?”

My little sister comes at me in a blur of blonde, squeezing her arms around me so tight I stop breathing for a moment. When she loosens her grip, I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, smelling the faint lavender scent.

“You’re back,” she says, backing up to look at my face.

“Prim, I was at a rehearsal for three hours. I wasn’t gone that long.” I laugh. “I love you.”

Her smile grows even wider. “Three hours too long. Come on, Sae and I are making cookies. Wanna help?”

I slip my hand into her outstretched one. “Sure.”

I have to run to keep up with the twelve-year-old, but I don’t have the heart to tell her to slow down.

“Welcome home, Katniss,” Sae, my mother’s friend says, giving me a soft but caring hug.

“Thank you. So, Prim tells me you’re making cookies,” I tease. “Wouldn’t want mom to find out, would we?”

Ruffling Prim’s hair, I go over to the sink to wash my hands. My hair is still in its bun, so I just take a few bobby pins to the fly-aways.

“How was the rehearsal?” Sae asks, handing me a bowl and wooden spoon.

I carefully fold in the chocolate chips as I answer, “Same as usual. Apparently, I have to start training a football player. He tore his ACL and needs to bring back up his strength.”

“Have you met him yet?” She hands me a greased cookie pan as I start to roll the dough into small balls.

“No, not ‘til tomorrow.” After I finish with the first batch, I place them in the oven and set a timer for fifteen minutes. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

They nod, and I give Prim a kiss on the forehead and Sae one on the cheek. I sprint up the stairs to my bedroom. I am breathing heavily by the time I make it to the connected bathroom. I turn the water to as hot as I can bear it, carefully stripping myself of my sweaty leotard and tights. Slowly, I take the pins from my hazelnut colored hair until it brushes my neck in its starting ponytail. I step into the shower gently, not making a sound just as I've been trained to do for years. I softly tug on the band keeping my hair up until it brushes my shoulders, instantly becoming darker when it touches my damp skin.

The hardwood under my feet reassures me as I do my quadruple pirouette.

“Wow, ” I hear a deep but soft voice say behind me. I quickly move my eyes from their spot on the wall above the mirror down to the reflection of a boy around my age. He's looking straight at me through the glass. “How did you do that?”

I exhale deeply at the ocean color of his eyes. I turn my body around so I'm facing him. He has leggings and a white t-shirt on, the standard male dancer uniform. Shrugging, I walk over to my bag to take a drink. “Practice, balance,” I respond, no emotion to my voice. I lower my body until I reach the floor. Slowly, I untie my ribbons and slide my pointe shoe off, letting my foot out. My tights are soaked with blood all around my small toe.

As I search my bag of a bandage for the popped blister, I feel the boy’s presence behind me. “Are you okay?” his voice is gentle.

Nodding, I uncover my foot. “Just a popped blister and another pair of ruined tights. Not a big deal.” I shrug, taping the bandage in place and putting the thin pink fabric back over to cover my bruised foot.

“That looks really bad.”

I glance over my shoulder at him. His arms are behind his back, his dark blond hair falling in his eyes.

I stand up, my shoe still off, and fix his hair. “Rule number one, mister, keep your hair out of your face. Either cut it or pin it back, but I don’t want to see it like that again.” My voice is stern, clearly showing that I didn’t want any rebuttals. He just nods. I sit back down and slide my shoe back in place before tying the ribbons back across my ankle bone. Once I finish, I dig in my bag once more for some spare bobby pins. Standing up, I offer him a couple. “Do you want me to fix it, or do you want to?”

“I’ll do it,” he answers, grabbing the dark metal pins from my hand. I nod and go back to the dance floor.

He follows me, looking in the mirror and trying, but failing, to fix his bangs from his eyes.

Rolling my eyes, I take one from my hair, holding it up for him to see. “Watch,” I demand, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. He turns to look at me, and I start to capture the hair between the prongs before pushing it back under my hair sprayed hair. “See?”

Nodding, he tries to do the same thing.

“Need help?” I ask, stepping closer to him, close enough to smell the scent of flour and vanilla that radiates off him. Nodding, he places the pin back in my hand. I repeat the steps with his hair until it is neatly pinned back.

Chuckling, I step away.

“What?” he asks, looking over at me.

“Those stick out like jazz shoes in a pile of ballet.”

He cocks his head to the right in confusion. “Huh?”

“What I mean is that you’ll have to buy the right color pins,” I respond, placing my feet and arms in the b plus position. “Now, follow my steps.”

He complies, stepping behind me a few steps to see better.

Slowly, I point to the second position, watching his every move in the mirror, before closing in fifth. He follows, equally slow. “Good,” I praise. I point to second again, this time closing in first. He mirrors my moves. “Now, we’re going to go on relevé. That means to go on your toes. You will balance on the balls of your feet, while I go all the way. Do not go all the way. You will damage your toes.” He nods.

“Okay.”

Slowly, I rise all the way up and off the round, only the platform of my shoe still on the wood. I look down at his feet in the mirror. He is doing as I asked, only slightly  bourréing.

“You’re doing well,” I say, “considering this is your first time.”

“I actually danced for a year in preschool,” he says, his head down to hide the red that is starting to cover his cheeks and nose. Smirking, I lower down to a plié. His feet slowly do the same before I come to a normal standing position.

“What’s your name?” I ask, turning to look at him.

“Peeta,” he says. “What’s yours?”

“Katniss,” I reply, going to one of the barrés connected to the walls.

“That’s pretty.”

“Thanks.”

He comes to stand in front of me. He’s only a few inches taller than me.

“How old are you?”

His eyebrow raises, but he answers anyway. “Sixteen. And you?”

“Same.” I gesture to the spot behind me. “Ready?”

Nodding, he grabs the sanded wood with his left hand, same as me.

“So, how long have you been dancing?” he asks, following my tendus.

“Since I could walk, I guess. And you?”

“About five minutes,” he says, laughing.

“It shows.” A small smile gracing my lips without consent.

 


End file.
